After carrying out an elaborate armed robbery, the man in grey army fatigues (how trendy he looked!) went on the run in America and I floated along beside him for the ride.
Was I his conscience? The narrator of a book? Or was I directing the movie of his exploits? Although I was not a participant I seemed to be around for every key moment of his life of crime.
After running up hills and through valleys painted like pantomime sets, we arrived at a holiday camp, populated with charming elderly women. They took a shine to the outlaw and never questioned who he was or how he came to live with them. They even failed to make the link when FBI helicopters hovered overhead and armed officers arrived looking for a criminal.
The outlaw gave himself up and the women wept.